


Allegro

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 11:37:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3568214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after the Season 3 episode Concerto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allegro

Cathy closed the door and put her back against it. She felt run through the wringer once more – one-sided Russian roulette while strapped to a chair tended to do that to you. Steed didn’t seem much better. Hat and umbrella onto the couch, he made for the drinks, talking loudly the whole while. She saw him wince as he picked up the decanter of brandy, then shake his head in that familiar, horse-like gesture that was his way of clearing out cobwebs…or suppressing pain.

“It was a damned stupid plot, when you come right down to it,” he was saying. “Veliko must have had a head full of rocks to even consider following through with it.”

“He didn’t, Steed,” she pointed out. “He never had any intention of it.”

“Well, why didn’t he come to me? Or to Zalenko? Or to…the police, for God’s sake. Why push it so far?” He splashed some soda into the glass. “Damned foolish.”

“He’s young, he was frightened. He isn’t in your business, remember? Do try to be a bit sympathetic.”

“I have no sympathy for fools.”

He tightened his hand around the glass and again winced, eyes snapping shut. Cathy leaned forward. She could just see the rim of red on the heel of his right hand. He’d covered it with a bandage for the duration of the evening, but now the bandage was coming off.

“Steed, your hand…” she began, rising. 

“It’s fine.” He took his glass in his left hand and sat down on the sofa. “It’ll pass.”

Cathy sat beside him and turned back the cuff of his coat before he could protest. Angry white blisters extended down the wrist.

“Steed…”

“I’m fine.” He pulled his hand away.

“Steed, it’s a second degree burn. Did you at least put water on it?”

“I’m not an infant,” he snapped. “I’ve managed worse than this, and in worse conditions.”

“That’s no excuse to be unkind to your own body.” She headed towards the kitchen. “If you’re not an infant, then do something for yourself instead of drinking my brandy!” 

She ran cold water over a towel under the tap. He was maddening, and that put it lightly. Couldn’t even take care of himself, posturing like the big, rough secret agent, like he didn’t need anyone. Oh, but he came calling on her often enough, needing advice, information, assistance, needing her to get him out of whatever jam he was in. 

When she turned from the tap with the wet towel, he stood in the doorway, right sleeve rolled up to the elbow. He looked like a little boy who had just scraped his knee and was somewhere between acting brave and bursting into tears. What anger she felt with him evaporated at the sight of his very red and blistered wrist and hand.

“Steed,” she said, taking his arm. “Honestly, you should have done something about it long before the recital.”

“It seemed all right and I didn’t have time.” 

She heard him grind his teeth as she set the cool towel against the wound. He wiggled his fingers. Blunt, hard, utilitarian, those hands; neither long nor elegant, but interesting in their own way. For all his posing and his playing of the genial man-about-town, Steed knew how to use his hands.

She finished cleaning off the wound and helped him bandage it more securely a second time.

“Florence Nightingale,” he said, flexing his hand. 

“The appropriate response when someone does something for you is ‘thank you.’ ” 

Cathy tossed the towel on the counter and went to move past him. She didn’t expect the hand that touched her waist, just enough to stop her, but she somehow expected the kiss, a mere peck that seemed to test her willingness. Then she was kissing him in earnest, firmly, hotly. He left the taste of brandy on her tongue.

She led him into the bedroom. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t been to bed together before. It usually followed a difficult assignment, when they both let their guards down just enough to release some of that building tension that was such a major facet of their relationship. Those times when Steed’s teasing ways pushed her to the breaking point, when she had to kiss him just to shut him up. Their nights together were usually explosive and left them both a little sore. Yet there were times also when she would awaken and find him still sleeping beside her, or sit down to breakfast with him without ever mentioning the night they’d spent together. Then Cathy admitted to herself that she was far fonder of John Steed than she ever thought of being. She didn’t fool herself that she was in love with him – Robert, gone as he was, still held her heart, and there was good chance he always would – but she found that she did actually give a damn about the well-being of the obnoxious man she’d come to call her partner. 

This was different, though. No slamming doors, no rending of garments, no wild, bruising, arousing kisses – not yet, at any rate. Just Steed standing in her bedroom, looking at her with a desire he took no pains to disguise. 

“Clothes,” said Cathy. Steed held up his bandaged hand.

“Need a bit of help.”

"Infant," she scoffed, but helped him all the same.

She buttoned his waistcoat and helped him undo his tie; helped with the buttons he couldn’t manage on his shirt; undid his cufflinks to get his cuffs over his bandaged hand. Cathy didn’t mind taking a moment to admire the admittedly attractive man who stood before her – the patch of dark hair on his chest, leading in a straight trail down his abdomen and beneath his belt. His broad, muscular shoulders, powerful hands and forearms, and that shock of thick hair she’d more than once locked her fingers into as she rode him. Most disarming of all were the cool, intelligent eyes, now slate-grey in the dim light of the beside lamp.

“Lie down.” 

As Steed got into the bed, Cathy stripped off blouse, skirt, and finally stockings, hanging everything up into the closet. She turned to find Steed laying on top of the covers, still in his trousers, and looking at her with an unreadable expression that vanished almost as soon as she turned. 

“Isn’t black a bit obvious?” he said with a grin.

“You’ll never let me live that down.”

“Not when you want to make fun of my proclivities.”

“Shall we discuss proclivities now, Steed?” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m willing to debate a woman’s right to wear what she likes, when she likes, if you’d prefer.”

Steed raised his hands. “I defer to your best judgement, Mrs. Gale.”

Cathy got onto the bed on her knees and walked up until she was straddling him. Steed shifted and tried to sit up, but a hand on his chest pushed him back onto the pillows.

“You’re not allowed to move until I say you can,” she said. “Don’t want to do anything to hurt that hand.”

Hovering over him on her hands and knees, she kissed him. Gently at first, a taste. Then harder, her mouth opening, her hands sliding up into his hair, pulling a little. She delved into him with her tongue. He responded admirably by releasing his held breath as his lips locked around hers. She would be gentle with him, for once; he was probably still in a bit of shock from his burns.

Cathy broke the kiss and descended his neck, her hands roving down his shoulders to his chest. He groaned when she nipped on his collarbone and again, louder, when her fingers stroked his chest. She felt his nipples harden at her touch, his breathing change as she rose and fell above him, mimicking the act of riding him and increasing the ache between her own legs.

“Let me touch you,” he said in that deep, husky, entirely serious voice she only ever heard when they were in bed together, when the sarcasm and cynicism began to fall away. She uncovered a man as badly in need of human contact as she was, and equally as unwilling to give up one shred of sovereignty. It was why they worked so well together, and why they could never be allowed to love each other.

She let him bring his un-bandaged hand to her breast, but did not expect her own gasp of pleasure at the contact. His palm was rough and cool, his fingers expert as they touched her through the lace of her bra and for a moment she closed her eyes to revel in the sensation. So few lovers since Robert, and none that touched her as he had; Steed was rougher than him, yet capable of a disarming tenderness, a desire to please and soothe the aches and pains of the day.

“Harder,” she said before latching on to his mouth again. He obliged, pulling down the lace cup of her bra to massage her. His fingers worked delicately on her hardened nipple until he pinched it and she cried out against his mouth. She bit his lower lip, a little roughly, before sitting up, dragging her hands down his torso.

Cathy undid the clasp of her bra and tossed it away, throwing her hair back. Her gaze met his in an open challenge she knew he would meet. He sat up, put both arms around her, and attacked her neck with deep, sucking kisses that would leave little purple marks. His bandaged hand came around to fondle her, rough gauze against sensitive skin as his mouth engulfed first one breast, then the other.

“Lie down,” she told him, pushing on his shoulder even as he sucked on her. He didn’t move. His undamaged fingers held her hip tight. 

“Lie down,” she repeated, and shoved him a little harder. He lay back on the bed, propped on his elbows.

She unbuckled his belt and opened his trousers, running her hand over his clothed and hardened genitals until he made a strangled noise that gratified her. Then she stripped him completely, taking a moment to remove her own underwear, and straddled him again.

Steed was a big man in more ways than one, but not to the point of discomfort. Cathy didn’t take him though, not yet. Instead she mimicked the act once more, rising and falling against his erection as she kissed his chest. The friction against her clitoris made her light-headed, the room growing fuzzy. She grew almost as desperate for deeper contact as he seemed to be. He was practically writhing beneath her, his hips rising of their own accord as he sought to enter her.

Cathy sat back and used him to stroke herself once more before rising above him and guiding him into her. He gave a deep guttural moan to match her own cry, his long neck arching as he slipped inside her. She rose and fell on him, once, twice, taking him halfway and then drawing back, the exquisite heat of his body and his own controlled arousal making her wetter, slicker. She descended once more and wriggled her hips a little, the change making him buck into her deeper. Then she stopped moving.

“Cathy, don’t,” he rumbled, and she was gratified again that this strong, maddening, mercurial man could give up just so much to her. She wriggled her hips again and again he bucked, head snapping back.

“You’re so tight,” he moaned, seizing her hips with both hands, pain evidently forgotten. She rose and fell on him again, then stopped. 

“And you’re so big," she said, and thought she saw a smile ghost across his face. She took hold of his left hand and guided it to her clitoris. His fingers worked that hard nub when she began her rhythm again,. His thumb circled and stroked in time as his other hand alternately gripped her hip, ran up her side to her breast and squeezed.

She could feel herself getting close and hear his cries that increased in depth and intensity. Steed’s own movements grew convulsive, his muscles tightening beneath her. Then she arched, falling as far on his shaft as she could, feeling him hit that spot deep inside her. She heard him cry out, and was aware of his fingers rubbing frantically against her clitoris and her own voice letting loose in a deep cry. A great glowing whiteness overcame her, lost in the spiral of her own orgasm. For a moment, she lived there, in the white sparks of pleasure spreading icy hot across her body. She was dimly aware of the rush of his ejaculation and his body spasming under hers, but for the moment even that did not matter. 

Cathy recovered before Steed did. She opened her eyes to see him lying back with one arm across his eyes. His chest and torso were sheathed in sweat and his bandaged hand hung forgotten by his side. She disentangled herself and propped herself on the pillows beside him. 

“How’s your hand?” she asked, surprised by the matter-of-fact tenor of her own voice. 

“What hand?” Steed uncovered his eyes and looked at her. “Oh, this. Just what the doctor ordered, I think. Better than a painkiller.”

“I’ll take that as compliment. Cigarette?”

“A cliché, but effective nonetheless.” 

Steed took the profferred smoke. He passed his free hand through his mussed hair. They smoked for awhile in silence, the tension dissipating as it always did, for a moment calm and collected together.

“I should be injured more often,” he said. 

“Don’t let this give you ideas, Steed. I needed it as much as you did.”

“Well, glad to be invited at any rate.”

She glared at him. “Must you be so flippant?”

“It’s in the blood, my dear. My father was a cynical bastard too.” He grinned at her. “To say nothing of my grandfather.”

“Mmph.” Cathy put out the butt of her cigarette and crawled under the covers. “Well, if you’re going to stay, put out the light when you’re done.”

“Yes, dear.”

She closed her eyes. In a moment, she heard the light click off and felt Steed slip down in the bed beside her. For a moment, there was silence in the room. Then she felt a gentle, almost tender brush of lips on her shoulder.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gale,” she heard him say. Cathy opened her eyes. He sounded like he meant it.


End file.
